


We Gather Together

by helsinkibaby



Series: Tests of Faith [8]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-28
Updated: 2002-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanksgiving at the Zieglers'. <i>Shibboleth</i> post ep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Gather Together

"That smells nice," I observe, going over to the counter, pulling the tinfoil out so that I can peek in at the turkey. The skin is nicely brown, but not too brown, the juices still bubbling around it in the tinfoil. The aroma is even more mouth-watering close up, and I'm pulling the tinfoil further away, the better to smell it when a hand smacks mine. "Hey!" I protest. "What was that for?"

"No free samples," Ginger tells me with a grin, the heat from the kitchen making her cheeks almost as red as her hair. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, little wisps of it escaping around her forehead, and she's wearing an old NYU T-shirt that's been washed so often that it's almost see-through. She's been here cooking since we got home from work today, having prepared most of the stuff last night. She had me chopping and peeling and doing God-knows-what-else to vegetables for what seems like hours and all I can say is that if I'm half the taskmaster in the office that she is in the kitchen, then no wonder everyone is terrified of me.

But she's happy, and if she's happy, so am I.

This is going to be the first dinner party that we've had in a long time, one of our famous parties where Ginger takes charge of all the cooking. I'm not counting the nights that everyone's ended up back here after a night out, after a state dinner, after a good day or a bad one, where we end up ordering takeout, or microwaving a pizza. Nights where we either end up ordering cabs for everyone, or our spare rooms, to say nothing of our couch, are filled with White House staff, as our home is turned into a makeshift hotel.

Of course, we haven't had one of those in way too long either.

It was easy to find excuses. We were all busy, things weren't going well at the White House, it just slipped away from us. Then May came along, and we went to Rosslyn. The wheels pretty much came off the wagon after that. Josh was in the hospital, then under house arrest, with Donna playing the role of jailer. CJ and Sam were trying to hold things together at the White House. I was trying to circumvent the Bill of Rights, trying not to lose my mind, not noticing how close I was coming to losing my marriage. They all tried to point it out to me, tried to get me to listen, tried to make me see reason. But I was past reason. I was so afraid of what could have happened, what might happen in the future, that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

The night of the midterm elections was the first night in a long time that all of us hung out together, sitting on Josh's stoop, drinking beer, talking and laughing and whiling the night away. Josh trying to convince us he was an outdoorsman, Donna rolling her eyes every time he tried, all of us trying not to laugh at him in those ridiculous pyjamas that were far too big for him. CJ and Sam taking it in turn to tease the two of them and Ginger and me, and Donna and Ginger flinging memories of the campaign at each other, the more embarrassing the better. And Ginger, sitting in front of me, leaning back against me, smiling up at me as if I'd hung the moon.

When she suggested that we host Thanksgiving dinner, I didn't really want to. I wanted it to be just the two of us. I burned a lot of bridges with her this summer, and I wanted to try to rebuild them with a romantic evening for two. But she was so enthusiastic about it, so happy about her idea, that I hadn't the heart to say no to her. And when everyone else was excited about it too, the idea grew on me. Josh and Sam were the first ones that I invited, and Ginger talked to Donna about it. She left it to me to ask CJ, and nearly killed me last night when I told her that I'd only asked her that day. "I told you to ask her last week Toby!" she'd hissed, before issuing me with instructions on how thin the carrots should be sliced. And I'd laughed and told her that CJ knew I was just playing with her.

Just like Ginger should know that I'm just playing with her by threatening to sample the food. "What time did Donna say she'd get here?"

"About a half an hour from now. She's picking CJ up," Ginger replies. "They said they'd bring dessert."

I swallow hard at that, although the word gulp would probably be more appropriate. "CJ? Dessert? Have you ever, you know, eaten her cooking?"

Ginger shoots me a glare, but the effect is rather lost due to the smile on her face. "Someone whose notion of cooking consists of dialling the takeout restaurant of his choice has no room to talk. What about Josh and Sam?"

"About the same."

"Leo?"

"With the First Family."

"Is he still angry about his sister?" When I glance over at her, she's keeping her gaze locked on the pot of gravy, stirring it with the kind of intensity that I usually only see from Sam when he's writing a speech. When I don't answer straight away, she looks sideways at me, trying not to be obvious about it, failing utterly.

"A little," I admit. "He was right though." She doesn't say anything, and I busy myself with closing the tinfoil just as carefully as I opened it. When that's done, I tap my fingers against the counter. "I shouldn't have rushed it."

"You wanted the debate," she points out, still not looking at me.

"Yes I did."

"You never did tell me why." It's not a question, but it is a question and she's right. In all the conversations that we had this week, not once did I admit to her why opening the door on school prayer was an issue for me. Truth be told, I don't think that I knew why it was such an issue for me until yesterday.

"CJ had to sing today, did she tell you that?"

The non-sequiter startles her, and she glances over at me, the spoon stilling in her hand for a second. "Yeah," she frowns. "She was muttering We Gather Together all day."

I nod, knowing that Donna had been helping her with the song, despite her denials. "There were these fourth-graders all sitting in the Rose Garden, all singing along, all big wide eyes and innocence… and if you ever tell anyone this, I will, of course, deny it. But I couldn't stop thinking about how precious they looked." There's a smile on her face at my admission, and I know that my secret is safe with her. "And there's probably one of those little kids, probably more than one, that gets teased, or worse, because they sit out the voluntary prayer in homeroom." I pause and shrug and see the understanding dawn in her eyes. "It makes kids different from other kids. Like there's not enough for kids to pick on already, by sanctioning voluntary prayer, we're giving them another way. And before you tell me that they're just kids, let me remind you that kids can be crueller than adults. And often are."

She stares at me for a moment, not saying anything, and I look down at the floor. I look up again when I hear the spoon tapping against the saucepan, metal against metal almost like a bell ringing in the silence of the room. She turns down the heat and leaves the spoon on the counter, coming over to me and slipping her arms around my waist. Her cheek rests against mine, and the tendrils of hair escaping from her ponytail tickle my skin, but instead of smiling, I sigh, holding her tightly. "Did they tease you?" she asks me quietly.

"And worse," I tell her, remembering the pushing, the shoving, the ripped clothes and ripped skin and bloody noses that characterised the majority of my elementary school career. Sitting out voluntary prayer was one thing that they had on me, my religion was another, the fact that I was one of the smart kids a third. But I'm older now, a little wiser, and one of those things, I can do something about. Correction, should be able to do something about. Can try to do something about.

"Did you tell Leo?" she asks, pulling back so that she can look at me.

"Some of it." But I didn't have to, because he knew without it. "He asked me what the prize was in fighting this war. And I told him that the fourth grader was the prize." I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I wrote a speech for the President once. When we were campaigning, before you joined. And it was about children, about how we should strive to give our children better than what we ourselves had. That's what I'm trying to do with this. That's the prize."

She smiles at me warmly, and hugs me again. "It's a good prize," she tells me. We've discussed having children, in the abstract sense. Both of us agree that to welcome a child into our lives right now would be insanity, what with the hours we work, the life that we lead. After the administration, or perhaps in the last year, is when we've settled on as a good time to start a family. I never expected to look forward to becoming a father in my fifties, but that's the price that you pay for having a younger wife, and the thought of sharing our lives with a band of children around us fills me with hope, with happiness.

Even though those children are only a thought right now, I still want to give them everything. To make life as safe for them as possible. To give them what I didn't have. Maybe that's why opening up the debate on school prayer was so important to me, I don't know. But I do know that it's a fight that's worth fighting.

A hiss of steam from a pot on the stove interrupts my thoughts and pulls her out of my arms. I stand watching her as she juggles lids and dials to make it stop before she casts her eye to the clock on the wall. "They'll be here in a few minutes," she observes.

"Or not, in Josh's case," I point out, remembering how his watch tells the time.

"Is Sam picking him up or is he picking up Sam?" is Ginger's sensible question, and when I indicate the former, she waves her hand. "Then they'll be early. I'm going to change… can you keep…"

"Sure," I tell her, ushering her to the door.

"And can you set the table…" Her voice trails off as she sees the dining room table ready for six, complete with her grandmother's lace tablecloth, a wedding present, and the good silver cutlery that one of my sisters had given us.

"Already done," I tell her, resting my hands on her shoulders, kissing the back of her head. "Don't worry, it's going to be fine. Trust me."

She turns to face me. "I do," she tells me, and she probably only means to kiss me quickly, but the look on her face right about now makes that an impossibility. I hold her tightly to me and kiss her properly, and her cheeks are even more flushed when I release her, pointing her towards our room.

*

When I go into our room and catch sight of myself in the mirror, it's all I can do not to burst out laughing. I'm in a pair of faded old blue jeans, the NYU T-shirt is practically threadbare, and my hair is sticking up all over the place. My friends and colleagues are going to arrive any minute to eat Thanksgiving dinner with me and my husband, who I've just left in charge of the stove, God help us all. We're working in the insanity that is the White House, having just grappled with the problems caused by Chinese immigrants and recess appointments, and we know it's not going to get any better any time soon.

And I can't stop smiling.

I'm not stupid. I know my husband, and I know that the last thing Toby wanted to do today was to have the rest of the gang over for dinner. He only relented because he could see how badly I wanted it. And I do. I want us to rediscover the ties that bound us together during the campaign. But what's more than that, I need it. So does Toby, whether he realises it or not. And so does everyone else. We've all just been floating, drifting along since May, hoping that the path of least resistance would carry us to safety, and instead all that's happened is that it's carried us away from each other. Josh was sequestered in his house, convalescing, and Donna wouldn't let any of us near him. And when he got back to work, it was as if no-one knew what to say about it. How do you talk about something like that? And we've been trying to get back to normal around him, but it's been so long since anything was normal that we hardly remember what that's like anymore. CJ and Sam were great, trying to hold it all together, trying to hold us all together, CJ talking to Toby, Sam talking to me, but not getting very far. Donna's been concentrating on Josh so hard that I wonder if she's really had a chance to deal with it all too.

And then there's Toby and me. I got off easier of the two of us, without a doubt. I wasn't there, didn't have to dive for cover and wonder who was hit, if I'd be next. Seeing it appear on the television screen was terrifying, yes, as was waiting for the phone to ring, waiting to hear his voice. But once I did, once I knew that he was all right, I knew that we'd be fine. That I could handle anything as long as I had him.

That's what I thought at first. And for a couple of days, I was even right. I wasn't to know that a photograph in the newspapers would call some crank out of hiding, that a death threat would slip through the mail checks in the White House and find its way to me. There were others, I know now, but they were weeded out, and Toby left instructions that I wasn't to be told about them. He knew all about them though, and between them and his anger at the people who shot Josh and the President, it was enough to send him off on some quest to try to beat them any way he could. He withdrew from all of us, me especially, and my kind, loving husband turned into a stranger.

Until the night of the Midterm Elections. I still don't know what happened to him that night, what finally broke through the barriers, made him realise what he was doing. All I know is that when he looked at me in Josh's living room, when he kissed me like he hadn't kissed me in weeks, I didn't care about anything that had gone before. And maybe that's a weakness on my part, maybe that's something that should worry me more than it does. But all I care about is that I've got my husband back. We've got some work to do, I know that, but we're going to get there.

That's what tonight is all about. It's about putting behind us the last few months, greeting our friends and celebrating what we have to be thankful for, rather than remembering all the bad stuff that's gone on. It's a new start for us, and what better way to welcome it than to welcome our friends - our family, really - into our home, and have a new start for them too?

We've worked hard to get ourselves back to this point. All of us. We deserve this night.

None of which will matter, I remind myself, if I don't get myself ready and get out there. Because let's face it, if we're relying on Toby to dish everything up, we'd be waiting a long time. I pull a pair of black pants from the closet, pairing them with a green sweater that's one of Toby's favourites on me, and I'm just starting to brush out my hair when the door opens and Toby comes in. "I thought I told you to keep an eye on the food…" I ask him, cursing as I hit a tangle in my hair. "I swear, I'm getting it all cut off in the morning," I grumble.

"Sure you are," he replies with a smile, having heard this on numerous occasions at varying levels of volume, with differing levels of inebriation. "And the food is fine."

"You would say that." I'm in the middle of formulating another objection when he comes over to me, taking the hairbrush from my hand, beginning to move the brush through my hair, and I close my eyes, relaxing under his touch. When I open my eyes again, I can't take my eyes off his reflection, the way that he's looking at me, and a shiver of desire passes through me. I hope he hasn't noticed, but the quick quirk upwards of his lips tells me that he did, and I remember again how this scenario usually ends. It's a place we can't go with company arriving soon, and the moment I think it, the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Toby tells me, kissing my cheek as he hands the brush back to me, and I give my hair one last quick brush before I go out to join them. I can hear Josh and Sam from down the hallway, Josh complaining about Sam being early, Sam complaining about Josh being late, and both of them complaining about the football scores.

When I get to the living room, both of them are standing with their backs to me, and predictably enough, Josh is wondering aloud about, "The culinary masterpiece that awaits us." I think that's a dig at Toby, but I answer, and enjoy the fact that the two of them jump about a mile in the air at the sound of my voice.

"If you don't like it Josh, I'm sure that there's any number of takeout places between here and your place," I threaten him, and he smiles back at me.

"You know I don't mean it," he swears as he walks towards me, hugging me quickly and kissing me on the cheek. "You look terrific," he tells me quietly, and I'm reminded of one of the last times that Josh and I spoke privately, when I sobbed all over him in his living room. I meet his gaze with a grin, to show him that I'm all right now, before he steps away, letting Sam give me a quick hug and kiss too.

"I wasn't sure whether to bring red or white," Sam apologises. "So I brought one of each."

"Don't worry, we'll drink them," I assure him, laughing. While I'm sure that he and Toby will have moved on to hard liquor by the end of the evening, CJ and Donna and I will stick with wine.

"I brought beer," Josh shrugs. "Because, you know, it goes with everything."

"Ginger!" A holler from the kitchen puts me straight back into the bullpen at work, and just like then, I move quickly towards it, all too aware of Josh and Sam hot on my heels.

"What did you do?" I call out as I walk, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice, and doing a pretty good job of it. Toby in the kitchen is not a pretty sight; he swears the only thing he can make properly is hot chocolate, and while once upon a time I might have scoffed at such a notion, two years of marriage have taught me different.

When I get there, he's standing in front of the stove, lifting the lid from a pot, cursing the heat. "The thing was spitting at me…" he complains, not turning around, and behind me, there are guffaws from Sam and Toby.

"That's because they're nearly ready," I tell him, coming up behind him, one hand snapping off the heat, the other coming around to rest on his hip. "You want to drain them for me?" I'm reaching for a pot holder with my free hand as I speak, and when I turn back to Josh and Sam, they can't stop grinning at us.

"If either of you mention this on Monday…" Toby threatens, hefting the pot over to the sink.

"Our lips are sealed," Sam promises, and Josh is nodding frantically, and I'm pretty sure what Toby's reaction is going to be.

"I am so screwed."

I don't know what possesses me, but regardless of Josh and Sam, I lean over to him, speaking into his ear in a tone so low that only he can hear me. "Not till later tonight…" The look he gives me is priceless, but whatever he might have been about to say is cut off by the doorbell ringing. "I'll get it," I blithely announce, heading out to welcome CJ and Donna.

Donna arrives bearing pie. "Home-made pumpkin pie," she announces proudly. "You'll just have to heat it up a little…"

"Home-made?" Josh asks sceptically. "You can cook?"

"Of course I can cook," she replies imperiously. "I made pie from this very recipe with my grandmother every Thanksgiving."

Josh opens his mouth, but before he and Donna can launch into one of their patented rounds of banter, Sam steps in. "What did you bring CJ?"

"Ice-cream!" she announces proudly.

I reach to take it from her, not missing the smirks on Josh and Sam's faces. "Would that be home-made ice cream too CJ?" Josh asks.

I'd say that's a distinct possibility when CJ gives him a look that could indeed freeze water. "Josh, I've just had a week of unendurable, endless Thanksgiving nonsense. I had turkeys in my office for a week-"

"Shouldn't you, you know, be used to that by now?" Donna asks, her gaze flicking noticeably from Josh to Sam.

"Hey!" Josh protests as CJ smiles at her.

"And I had to conduct a musical on CNN. My point is that I'm ready to enjoy this evening, so can we please not, you know, do the whole snark CJ thing?"

"And while we're doing that," Toby speaks up. "Maybe you'd all like to go into the dining room so that we can start dinner?"

I've never seen four people move so fast.

*

I have never seen any of those four people move as fast as they did when I announced that we should all move into the dining room so that we can start dinner. It's left to Ginger and me to transfer the food into dishes and bring them to the table, and somewhere in the middle of those numerous trips, Josh has taken upon it himself to begin filling up people's wineglasses. There's much ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the food that Ginger's spent hours slaving over, especially when the turkey comes out, and I must say that if it smelled good a half an hour ago, it smells even better now.

When we're all sitting down, it's Sam who asks, "So, who's going to go first?"

Josh looks at him strangely. "Pardon me?"

"It's Thanksgiving Josh," Sam points out. "We each have to say what we're thankful for."

The words are met with silence as we all look at one another, no-one wanting to go first. "I'll start," CJ says. "I'm thankful that I got through this week with my sanity more or less intact."

"Mostly less," Josh quips, and Donna throws him a look.

CJ is sitting beside Sam and she evidently thinks that he should go next. "Well Spanky? You set this whole ball rolling."

Sam nods, accepting the inevitable. "I'm thankful that I get to spend my work days with people that I actually like." He grins around the table at all of us, before looking to his left, and Donna. "Donna?"

"I'm thankful that I wandered in Josh's cubicle three years ago, and not Toby's." She doesn't take her eyes off Josh when she speaks, and I can feel Ginger looking over at me. We both agree that Donna and Josh are crazy about each other, but unfortunately, we also know that nothing can ever come of it. Not now at any rate. "Josh?"

Josh looks around the table at each one of us, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I'm thankful to be here…today…with all of you," he says simply, and I can feel a lump in my throat as I remember how close he came to not being here. How close all of us came to not being here if it comes to that. "Ginger?"

I can see Ginger swallow hard, can see the tears forming in her eye, see her struggle to keep them back. "I'm thankful for this family," she finally manages, and we all look at one another, smiling, identical expressions on all our faces. I have the feeling that Ginger's just hit a nerve with all of us gathered here. For all of us, this is the closest thing to family that we have in Washington; for some of us, we get on with this particular family better than we do with our real ones. And I think that we might have been taking things for granted a little, until Rosslyn came along and knocked some sense into us.

I'm mulling this over when I realise that all eyes have turned to me, and that it's now my turn to speak. This should be easy for me, I'm a speechwriter after all, but I find myself strangely lost for words. I look around the table, looking at each person in turn, but it's only when my eyes meet Ginger's that I find myself able to speak.

"We've all had a pretty tough year," I begin, and everyone nods, rueful smiles on their lips. "And it's been hard, getting through it, for all of us. I realise that I, especially, haven't been the best person to be around the past few months…and I'm thankful that all of you put up with me for as long as you did." I grin quickly, seeing the surprise on their faces, because they're not used to me talking this freely. "I'm especially thankful for my wife," I continue, reaching over to take her hand. "Firstly, for not divorcing me, although I've given her more than adequate cause…" There are a few nervous chuckles at that. "But mostly, just for being herself." Ginger is scarlet when I raise her knuckles to my lips, kissing them quickly, and I hold her gaze for a moment before turning back to the rest of them. "I'd like to propose a toast." I pick up my glass, still holding Ginger's hand, and everyone follows suit. "To family."

"To family." The toast is echoed and glasses are tipped together before we get down to the serious business of eating. Table talk is relegated to how good the food is, requests to pass this, that and the other, and a mini-skirmish between Josh and Sam over the last of the potatoes. Which leads to another mini-skirmish when Josh wins and Donna ends up taking half of the spoils from his plate.

There's more than enough food to go around however, and when we're all comfortably full, the table still seems to be full of food. "Looks like you'll be eating leftovers for a week Toby," Sam cheerfully tells me, and Ginger laughs.

"The amount of time we eat here, it'll be a lot longer than that."

Which is true, I have to admit, although the way she says it leaves me with a vaguely guilty feeling in my stomach. I know that she knew what our lives were going to be like when she married me, even before that. But it doesn't stop me thinking that she deserves more than just going from work to home and back again. That I should be able to give her more than that. "I'm sure we'll manage," I find myself saying, and she grins over at me, without any hint of unhappiness on her face, anything to indicate that she meant something by her words. It was just a passing remark, nothing more. I know that.

"Well, Ginger," CJ steps in, and I catch her looking between us quickly. "I have to hand it to you…that was incredible. I haven't eaten so well in…" She pauses, looking around as if she's thinking hard. "A long time," she finishes, and we all laugh. It's been a long time since any of us have had a home-made meal like that.

"And we're not finished," Ginger announces, standing. "For dessert…" A chorus of groans interrupts her and she raises her voice above them. "We have Wisconsin Pumpkin Pie…" she grins at Donna before turning her attention to CJ, "And ice cream. Also coffee." She begins lifting plates. "I'll just clear some of these away."

She's got most of the plates when Sam stands, beginning to gather up some of the dishes. "Let me help you there."

"Thanks Sam."

The two of them make a couple of trips back and forth to the kitchen, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Josh and Donna begin a quiet conversation about God knows what at the other end of the table. I'm wondering if Ginger would absolutely kill me if I began to smoke a cigar before dessert when CJ takes the opportunity to move closer to me, taking the seat that Ginger has just vacated. "I meant what I said you know. This was a great dinner."

"Yeah. Ginger spent a long time on it," I agree.

I was going to add that it was worth every second, but CJ is looking at me in that way she gets when she's got something to say, but she's not quite sure how to. Her wine glass is in one hand, the other is scratching her neck, playing with a necklace that she's not wearing right now. Her head is tilted, lips pursed, and she finally speaks. "Toby…" There's a second's pause before she continues. "How are things?"

I take my own pause before I answer her. "Good," I reply, taking a sip of my own drink. "Things are good."

"Are they Toby?" I should have known that CJ would call me on my words; after all, she was the first one to come to me when things got bad this summer, she was the one who warned me the day after the shooting that Ginger was close to falling apart. She's always been there, looking out for Ginger and me. "Because this summer, you kept on telling everyone that everything was fine and-"

"I know what I did CJ," I tell her. "But it's not like that now." Her eyes show her doubt. "I don't know what else to tell you," I admit.

"It's not that I don't believe you Toby. I know that you're not faking this." She waves her hand around the room to indicate her point. "What I'm afraid of is that this is just for now."

"It's not just for now," I tell her quickly, firmly. "We're fine CJ. We're going to be fine."

CJ holds my gaze for a long moment before smiling and shaking her head. "I'm just worried about you Toby," she admits, putting her glass down on the table, resting her fingers on the base and twirling it slowly. The tablecloth bunches up underneath it as it turns, and she frowns at it, not looking up at me. "About both of you. You're my friends, and I care about you and…"

"I understand CJ," I tell her, putting my hand over one of hers, stilling the turning glass, and she looks up at me, eyes wide. "And Ginger and I appreciate it. We do. But we're fine."

She nods, smiles at me. "Good then. Good." We stay like that for a moment before she visibly shakes herself. "Maybe I'll go help Ginger with dessert," she suggests.

"You're a guest," I tell her. "I'll go."

She stands before I've even finished the sentence. "I insist," she tells me, dropping a hand on to my shoulder as she passes. "Can't have you ruining my hard work now can I?"

"It's ice cream CJ," I remind her, but she doesn't say anything, just disappears into the kitchen.

*

Even if I do say so myself, and I do, that was a good meal. The food turned out perfectly, despite the fact that I left Toby unsupervised with it, everybody ate their fill and we didn't run out, and they all seemed to enjoy themselves. I'd forgotten how nice it was just to have everyone around, have everyone in a good mood, not worrying about work or personal stuff, just friends enjoying each other's company. We should do this more often.

I stand to clear the table, telling everyone that I'm going to get dessert while I'm out there, and their groans make me smile. I know full well that they'll eat the dessert when it comes out - Donna made pumpkin pie last Thanksgiving and gave one to me and Toby, and I think he actually begrudged giving me a slice of it. He enjoyed it that much. I told Donna that, and she thought it was hilarious - she even brought over not one, not two, but three pies for tonight.

The only thing about hosting one of these parties is the inevitable clean-up operation that has to go on afterwards, and I decide to make a start on this one now, while the rest of them are still engaged in after-dinner conversation. After all, they've just eaten Thanksgiving Dinner; they can wait for their dessert for as long as it takes me to load up the dishwasher. I'm all set to do it on my own when Sam comes in laden down with dishes. "What can I do with these?" he asks me, putting them down on the counter, and I look up at him as he rolls up his sleeves and looks around the kitchen.

"You're a guest Sam," I tell him, gesturing in the direction of the door. "Go on out, I won't be long."

"I insist," he replies, and he's already turning on the tap, searching the kitchen cupboards for washing-up liquid. "You want to leave these in to soak, right?"

I shake my head, knowing from experience that it's impossible to talk Sam out of things when he's got his mind set on something, a trait that drives Toby to distraction. "This really isn't necessary," I tell him as my final denial, stacking the plates while he stands at the sink.

"So…how much cooking did Toby do for this?" he asks me after a couple of seconds of silence. I'm not looking at him, and his back is to me, but I can hear the smile in his voice, and I know the answer that he's expecting.

"Are you implying that my husband can't cook?" I toss back. "Because I'll have you know that he was raised-"

"Raised on Miss Julia Child," Sam completes my sentence. "But there's a difference between watching and doing. And he didn't look too comfortable when we got here…"

"He was a big help," I tell Sam loyally. "I'm just glad everyone had a good time."

"Yeah." Sam's voice sounds slightly wistful. "It's been a while since we were all together like this, hasn't it?"

"We should do it more often," I say as I put in the last of the cutlery and stand up, closing the dishwasher. When I turn to him, he's finished putting the pots in to soak and he's standing leaning back against the sink, and he's looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

"We really should," he says, and I'm trying to work out what that look on his face means, and I really can't. I haven't seen a look like that from Sam in a long time, if ever. It's not unlike the one that he wore the day that the photo of him and Laurie was published in the newspapers, when I talked to him in his office. It's a kind of sad, wistful look, one that goes along with the tone of his voice, and it seems like it should be out of place today.

"You ok Sam?" I ask him, frowning as I rest my hip against the counter and cross my arms.

"I'm fine," he smiles. "Are you?"

And suddenly, that look makes a little more sense to me, because I think I might know where it's coming from. "I'm ok Sam," I tell him gently, trying to keep a note of impatience out of my voice.

"Really?" I must give him a look because he holds his hands up quickly. "I'm just wondering…" he adds. "Because I remember in the summer, you were saying that things were fine when they obviously weren't, and I was concerned that…"

"Sam…" I draw his name out, shaking my head and smiling at him. One of Sam's main character traits is that he can't stand to see one of his friends unhappy, and when he does, or thinks he does, he wants to do everything that he can to help. He thinks that he can fix everything, or he'll die trying, and God help me, I love him for it. But every so often, he ends up getting an idea in his head that's totally off base, and he'll still try to fix it. That's usually when Toby starts heading for the liquor cabinet straight when he gets home from work.

He stops talking when I say his name, and he looks down for a second before he looks up again, and there's a sheepish smile on his face when his eyes meet mine. "I just… I worry about you. About both of you."

"I know." My smile is genuine too. "But we're fine Sam. Really." I'm thinking of the toast that Toby gave at the dinner table when I speak, and the skin on my hand almost tingles where he kissed it. I can picture how he looked in the mirror earlier on tonight when he was brushing my hair, the look that was in his eyes when he talked about giving our children better than we ourselves had. That's the first time in a long time that he's mentioned us having children together, even as oblique a reference at that, and the notion of it almost made me want to cancel the dinner and get to work on having them as soon as possible. He's been more attentive to me these few weeks since the Midterms, leaving the office at, if not reasonable hours, at least not past midnight; he's been holding me when we sleep, doing other things before we sleep; he's even started bringing me back food from the mess again. Even if I've discovered that boisenberry danishes are just not for me, it truly is the thought that counts.

I know that all these thoughts are bringing a lovesick smile to my face, and I'm slightly embarrassed about it, but Sam just grins at me. "Good then," he says. "You'd tell us though… if there was…"

"Yes Sam," I tell him, thinking not for the first time, that it's a good thing that I grew up with a family full of over-protective older brothers, because it's really stood to me since I've been dealing with Sam Seaborn when he's in this type of mood. On impulse, probably because I'm touched by his concern, probably because he looks so worried still, I go to him and hug him, and he responds in kind, holding on to me tightly, dropping his head on to my shoulder. "You're very sweet," I say to him as he holds me, and I can feel him chuckle.

We pull away, and he's looking down at me and is about to say something when a voice from behind me makes me jump. "How are things going out here?"

I turn in his arms to see CJ leaning against the doorframe, her wineglass still in her hand, looking more relaxed than I've seen her look all week. The thought flits through my brain that I really must stop hugging Sam, because it seems like every time I do, someone interrupts us, and that people are going to start talking. But I don't say that to her, I just smile. "The pots are soaking, the washer is stacked, and we're about to start dishing up dessert," I tell her.

"Need an extra pair of hands?" I'd decline the offer, telling her she's a guest, if she hadn't already been pulling the pie out of the refrigerator as she spoke, and I grin at Sam, shrugging my shoulders as I find the plates for dessert. The three of us spend the next couple of minutes slicing pie and spooning ice-cream on to plates, and it could be my imagination, but I think CJ's giving Sam funny looks out of the corner of her eye, to which Sam, of course, is oblivious. I make a mental note to ask her about it later, but at the moment, we're having a nice evening, where everyone's getting along, and I'm not going to do anything to rock the boat.

*

"I thought they'd never leave," I say to Ginger as we close the door behind our guests, leaning against it just in case they decide to try coming back in. We've got leftovers galore, they just might.

She laughs at me, slipping her arms around my waist, kissing my cheek quickly. "They weren't here that late," she defends them.

"Yes, but-" I tell her, beginning to kiss my way down her neck as I speak. "There were other things that I would much rather be doing…"

"I'll bet there are…" she laughs, and she leans her head back, giving me better access to her neck in the process, and her arms go tighter around my waist, her hands moving up my back. When I lift my head to look at her, her eyes are closed, her cheeks pink, and there's a smile on her lips, one that quickly vanishes when she realises that I've stopped. "You're not going to continue that?" she asks dryly.

"I'm planning on it," I tell her. "But I need more pie first."

"You're impossible," she tells me, as if I didn't already know that. I've worked very hard on that reputation, and just because there's no-one here but us two doesn't mean that I have to let up in any way shape or form. She should be used to that by now. And maybe she is because she follows me into the kitchen, her hand in mine.

"You want some?" I ask her, releasing her hand as I go to the fridge.

When I turn back to her, she's sitting on one of the counters, and she's reaching behind her for one of the half-empty bottles of wine that we've left there. "I'm good," she replies, half-turning so that she can open one of the cupboards, taking down a glass, all without moving from her perch. She's very talented, my wife. I must be staring at her, because she pours herself a glass, half-looking at me, half keeping an eye on the wine level in the glass, and raises an eyebrow. "You gonna eat that pie or are you gonna look at me all night?"

"I'm considering it." I lean against the closed door.

She puts the bottle down and raises the glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip, lifting both brows. "So let me get this straight…first, you offer to share the pie with me. Now you're considering not eating the pie at all, and looking at me all night instead?" Her eyes are dancing with mischief. "Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?"

The look on her face makes my decision for me, and I put the pie back in the fridge, walking over to her. "I think you know exactly who I am," I tell her, placing my hands on her hips when I'm in front of her. She's already put down the wineglass as I was walking over, leaving both arms free to wrap around my neck, and our lips meet hungrily. I've been wanting to do this all night, ever since we first got home in fact, and much as I enjoyed dinner with our friends, there were times when I was perilously close to throwing them out the door. Or the window, whichever was nearer at the time. But they're all gone now, and I have the rest of the night to spend with my wife, and I intend to make the most of it.

When I stop kissing her, which I don't want to do, but which the little matter of oxygen deprivation makes a necessity, my hands have found their way underneath her sweater, caressing the smooth skin there. Nor have hers been idle, as evidenced by the way that my shirt is now opened, my undershirt pulled up from my pants. She's moved closer to the edge of the bench and her legs are wrapped around my waist, and from the darkened look in her eyes, she can feel just what she's doing to me. She's breathing deeply, as am I, but she manages to find the wherewithal to say, "I swear, if the next words out of your mouth have anything to do with pie…"

I'm not sure if she's joking or not, but I laugh anyway. "I was actually going to ask if you wanted to take this to the bedroom…"

She tilts her head at me, a devilish grin on her lips. "Or we could just stay right here…"

"Ginger…"

"It's not like we haven't done it before…" She begins to kiss her way down my neck as she speaks, pushing my shirt to the floor, and she's really not playing fair there, because it's hard for me to think straight when she does that, and she knows it.

She breaks off kissing me to squeal when the remaining brain cells that are actually functioning send the message to my arms that I should lift her from the bench and I do, turning, doing my best to carry her to the bedroom. We get as far as the hallway, all the way through the living room, before we almost topple over, and she stands on her own two feet then, and, still kissing, clothing flying everywhere, we end up somehow in our bedroom, and I pretty much stop thinking after that.

And later, much later, when she's lying in my arms, sleeping soundly, her long red hair fanning out on the pillow behind her, I remember what she said she was thankful for at the dinner table. And I remember my own words, and I realise that they really didn't do her justice. I told her once that I ran out of words when it came to describing what she meant to me, and I still do, even now. I try to make a list, of all the things in my life that I'm thankful for, and they all begin and end with her. I'm still adding to it when I too fall asleep.


End file.
